


The Boy and the Wolf

by historiCthrenody (Cookieluv246)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Fantasy, First Meetings, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:07:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23905162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cookieluv246/pseuds/historiCthrenody
Summary: A boy meets a man outside in the woods. Except it's not a man, but a...What could possibly go wrong?
Relationships: Dave's Bro | Beta Dirk Strider/John Egbert
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	The Boy and the Wolf

You walk on the beaten path. Barefoot, feet dirty, as you step on twigs. Grass. The like. All of which crack and snap beneath your feet, as you trudge yourself deeper and deeper into the woods. The daylight is showy, careening between the leaves on the trees. As it shows in little dimples that twinkle sunshine and fire rightful between your eyes and your iris. You suck in air as smooth as oranges, as you smell fruit and Carnations sprinkle it’s scent underneath your nostrils.

Brightness guides your movements. Frightfully, it feels early, as you soak in scents of lakes and dirt, mirth and earth, all of which could possibly come from the ground. The wind blows against your blue scarf, that’s tugged tight between your neck. It’s cold out here for the most part, not below zero, but not above sixty. The wind helps chill your bones, as it brushes against the light hairs of your legs, and the busying hairs of your arms.

Goosebumps thrill you, trill through you as air blows against your raven stock hair. It’s fuzzed from just being washed. Slick against your forehead, and lightly bouncing as you crunch on the wood of the God given sky. And the tender leaves of the God given earth. 

Your father is at home, you snuck outside his peripheral vision as you decided to venture out here for the day. You wanted to catch outside before the storm came, you heard it on the television that there would be one soon. You wanted to taste the outside air yourself. You wanted to feel the breeze against your tongue, beneath your tastebuds.

Beneath your ere, as you ere towards the outside more and more each day. You feel tongue twisted in nature’s way. You feel a part of it. A part of something bigger than yourself, besides books, and videogames, and school, and homework. 

You’re a bigger whole to something more partial. Something more bizarre than the mundane ingenuity, the claustrophobic death of every Sunday, and Monday coming to pass. Out there your name is boy, but out here your name is John. It’s a hammock you’ve weaved ever since you were little, ever since you were small enough that tying your own shoes was a large task.

You like it out here, and you think if it could talk it would like you too. You used to talk to it, outside, when you were very small. You used to use the trees as your sworn kept diary, and the green moss as your well kept bed. You’d lay there for hours thinking about nothing but the bright blue of the sky, and the bright white messages of the clouds.

You’re sure it used to talk back to you too.

Once you’ve found a spot, your pace slows to an even stop. You press your toes into the mud, as you press your hand onto bark. The wood cutting into the palm of your hand, as wood presses deep marks into the inner of your grooves. It leaves an imprint on you, as you one day hope to do the same.

You breathe in the deep rich spirits, and lay yourself down onto the roots of the trees. You sit cross legged in the soil, knees bent in a way that it stretches out your muscles. You feel comfortable, underneath the shade, underneath the birds that chirp overhead you and pridefully gloat of their wings to fly. But you stay grounded, grounded in the muck as you keep your eyes closed, and your feelings fair.

You start a low tune, you whistle between your two large front teeth. You whistle a tune you remember from the radio, as your eyes lay closed, and the breeze lay gentle. You sing like a canary, as the day goes amongst its time. Ushering the day like an egyptian beetle ushers the sun on it’s back. Your low sound attractive to your own ears as you keep up the voice of reason.

But your concentration is broken, when you hear a low tune _back_ . It’s quick and it’s mimicking, and it makes you freeze up colder than leather. You open your eyes in shock, as you look around to make sure that you’re still _alone_. To see for yourself, spooked out of comfort, as you turn your head in every direction to get a vibe for where the sound is coming from.

Your ears catch sound of a twig breaking, and you strike your head in the direction it’s coming from--

That’s when you see it. That’s when you see _him._

“Hello,” He says in a low enough baritone that it rings against the trees. Against the fauna. Against the whole evening of the forest. 

Your hand goes to step back, but you just break another twig in the process, and you fall down on your back with a _crack_. You’re shocked, by not just the fault of there being another person out here. But by who this person is--or rather what he looks like.

You’ve seen men. Men before with their beards, and their peach fuzz. But you’ve never seen a comb over around their whole head before. He wears a baseball cap, on top of his head, it sits pleasantly against his thicket of _fur_ , you’ve come to realize. His fur is somewhere between dirty blonde and hazel brown, as it marks him all the way through his arms, and likely to his legs which you can’t see with slacks in the way.

You’re stunned, shocked. You get up immediately, and defensively stand against the tree. Tempted to hide behind the poison, as you keep your breath hitched, and your body heightened. You want to run, but you’re denied the space, as you keep your eyes locked on the man. No, the _thing_. The things standing right in front of you and safety, as you take in a breath lasting like a gasp, and a stance lasting like a run.

“ _Who are you_ ,” Is what you not only ask. But demand. You demand it from the shudder of your bones, as your body feels skippy. Like your hearts going to land right out of your chest, and your breathing bares no semblance to your body.

“Just a walking traveler. Who are you?” He blinks his golden bright eyes at you. They cascade off the sun, and bear witness to his shining silver teeth, that grins smugly against the day’s rays. They’re fangs, pointy, long, stricken. They feel longer than the road you need to walk to get back home, and they fall deathly on faint ears as you wonder if your body could take the crackle of such a shore.

“I’m, uh…”You say skittishly, as you look down, and then up. You’re trying not to sound as afraid as you feel, you feel much, and say little. Shoulders strung up, as your arms meet the back of the tree. Prinkles and tingles run up and down your veins. You’re sure if you stay here any longer you’ll catch splinters and a cold. You just slosh around in your space, breathing tinted in ferocious, as you stare on at the man that may surely kill you.

“Hm?” He steps forward. Loud polished shoes making contact with the dirt. You would never suspect a wolf of such exterior to own such a pair. But they fit his relaxed looking demeanor, the same way his fangs fit right around your head. They give him a bit of sophistication. Or maybe it just makes him a better runner than you are.

“I’m.” You step back. Your own shoes just simple dirty sneakers that you left at home, as you try to fit your whole body around the length of the tree. You remember your way home from here. You remember your town, your city, your whole ordeal. Just in case somebody were to ask. Just in case someone saw your rotting dead body here. If they were ever in need of a picture, or a name. You’d have one ready.

“I call myself Strider. What’s yours?” He says as the wind bobbles up and down the sprawl. His blonde thicket of hair showers through his eyes, gold set on you. Piercing ever still. They look like a hunt. A hunter on the mark for their next kill. They thrive on the like of the innocent, morally cumbersome. 

“John,” You raise your cheek. You huddle closer to the tree, but there’s no more room to grow. You keep to the bent curve of roots far more settled, far more lively than you are. Though your heartbeat masters itself over a great rung of a thousand cliff sides. You don’t know where to go, or how to set tracks, so you stay as still as an ever lit flame.

“Nice to meet you, John.” He raises a hand, and you flinch accordingly. Until you realize his hand is merely held up in the air. Waiting for you to grasp it. It shows off his nails, long, sharpened. They match him. They match him in disturbance of wellness. 

“Yeah,” You edge yourself off the tree. You take a step back. Then another. And one more, as you look around to see if there’s a way to run.

“Nice to meet you, John.” He says, keeping about his wits. He’s poised, almost regally like a cat, as he grooms himself on you. Grooms himself to be ever stoic, ever locked, ever silent. Slick. A real character of his own charades, as he still keeps his hand ever planted at your front. He’s stuck to it, stuck in time as you’re both frozen in a silent watchful trajectory. 

“Nice to mee--” You throw a stone on the other side of the forest, and you wait for his head to turn, before you boast off. Tuned on your feet, you start running. You keep at it, and at it, and at it. Rushing past branches that you crash past and dash from on your feet. Your scarf gets caught in the jet of your life, caught like a hooked fish on a branch somewhere you probably don’t look back. You run.

You don’t look back.


End file.
